


your raven still flies

by firelord_zutara



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Animal Instincts, Animal Transformation, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Alternating, Pre-Canon, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Shifter!Jaskier, Timeline What Timeline, Wolf Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, animal injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25829548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firelord_zutara/pseuds/firelord_zutara
Summary: It’s in Rivia, where he finds the pup.Rationally, Vesemir knows he should just move on and leave the pup to the forest, to be finished off by some other animal or monster. Any lone pup would make an easy meal, never mind one who’s injured and reeking of blood.And yet...Or: Vesemir finds an injured wolf pup in the woods. He names him Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 56
Kudos: 385





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I've done some research into the games/lore but I haven't played them myself and haven't read the books, I've just watched the show, so I'm likely playing around with canon a bit. I did have fun with it though, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Also if you're coming here from my bnha fics please know they're absolutely not abandoned, but this is an itch I need to scratch. I do not control the brain worm.
> 
> Also also, this chapter is unbeta'd.)
> 
> Fic title from [The Raven Still Flies - Sonata Arctica](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3WF01ej4tw4)

It’s in Rivia, where he finds the pup.

Having completed what he’d hoped to be his last contract before making his way back to the keep, Vesemir had been looking for an appropriate clearing in the dense woods to make his camp.

It’s seconds after he catches the faint stench of blood that Sturgeon nickers at his side, tugging at her reins. Running a soothing hand over her flank, Vesemir loosely wraps her reins around a thin tree before motioning for her to stay as he approaches the scent, one hand wrapped around the hilt of his sheathed steel blade.

By now he’s also caught onto the scent of wolf, but he still isn’t expecting to see such a small pup nestled into a tangle of roots behind a thick tree, panting heavily. In the faint glow of the twilight, the blood matted into his side shines black.

It’s rather amazing really, that the thing is still alive. Injured enough to be abandoned but apparently not enough to be eaten by his own pack.

And rationally, Vesemir knows he should just move on and leave the pup to the forest, to be finished off by some other animal or monster. Any lone pup would make an easy meal, never mind one who’s injured and reeking of blood.

He should just take Sturgeon and go, find some semblance of a clearing just as he’d planned on moments ago.

And yet... 

Vesemir sighs, already kneeling down and unfastening his cloak. It’s those damn eyes, he tells himself. Those wide, innocent eyes, so full of fear as he stares up at Vesemir, likely smelling the predator on him. But those damn eyes, so similar in color to his own, to his older students, those who have started the Trials… 

“Godsdamn it,” he mutters to himself, picking up the little thing as gently as he can, wrapping it in his cloak. It’s not like he really needs it, with how far into spring it is.

He wasn’t even supposed to be in Rivia. Just as winter began to thaw, he’d gotten sent out to the southern border of Kaedwen to deal with a pack of kikimora. It was rare for witchers to be called upon so directly, but not unheard of, and something as dangerous as kikimora actually living together certainly called for it. So much so, that he’d even brought along another witcher, one only a few years on the Path, as both aide and a teaching lesson. He’s certainly glad he did, too, considering a good few ribs (and possibly more) would’ve likely been broken otherwise, but they’d both made it through with minimal injuries.

The younger witcher had continued on towards Cidaris, according to what he’d told Vesemir, setting out west along the Pontar River. Vesemir had meant to return to the keep straight after, but as it so often was, the Path had called him further south, contracts propping up in villages all along the eastern side of Mahakam, and so onward Vesemir went.

Point being, Vesemir hadn’t meant to travel this far south in the first place, and now with this string of contracts seemingly at an end, he’d been fully prepared on returning to his students at Kaer Morhen. Nowhere in that plan did it include cradling an injured and abandoned wolf pup to his chest, leading his wary mare to a proper clearing to pitch camp so he could begin tending to the little creature’s wounds.

Vesemir sighs. He doesn’t know why he still bothers searching for any sense of normalcy in his life.

\--------

He manages to quickly find a place to set up camp, clotting the sluggish bleeding with one hand as he does so, pressing the thick wool of the cloak into the wound. Not as if it’s the first time it’ll be stained with blood.

Sturgeon huffs impatiently when Vesemir moves to dig through her saddlebags rather than untacking her like he normally would. He absently pets over her neck in some attempt at soothing after he finds what he needs, returning to the pup.

Still breathing heavily, the poor thing is otherwise calm as Vesemir begins his work. He’s thankful to already have some clean rags and a full waterskin on hand, so that he can gently wipe down the matted fur as best he can, the white fur underneath turning from an almost black-red to a lighter, more rusted color.

He works as quickly and efficiently as he can, sewing up the wound, the pup barely so much as flinching as he works the needle. Obviously in pain, but surprisingly well behaved. Vesemir is thankful the pup doesn’t try to gnaw at his fingers.

After, he applies a thin layer of salve before deciding he’s done as much as he can. As soon as Vesemir backs away the pup moves to lick at the stitches, to which Vesemir is about to scold before the little wolf’s snout wrinkles up in what can only be disgust, turning his head back around with a whine.

Vesemir allows himself a smile, before returning to tend to his horse.

\--------

By the time Vesemir reaches the Gwenllech river, he can admit to himself that he has no idea what he’s doing.

The pup has long healed by now, the wound only leaving a bit of a nasty scar in its wake. He’d been wary of Vesemir for days, at first, while still barely able to move. Plenty of rations stored, Vesemir kept the three of them on the road, letting Sturgeon dutifully lead herself for the most part, as he traveled with the pup in his arms, curled into his chest.

The morning Vesemir wakes to find the wolf pup up and walking, snuffling about the camp, he expects the thing to either run off, or perhaps try lunging at Vesemir. But instead the pup approaches with caution, his nose stuck out as he moves to nuzzle at one of Vesemir’s exposed hands. Standing very still, Vesemir prepares himself for a nip, but instead the pup starts licking at him, tail wagging.

After that…

Well.

It wasn’t as if Vesemir was going to leave the poor thing if he seemed determined to stick by his side. He knows his own teachers, long dead, would be shaking their heads at his frivolousness, wasting perfectly good rations to feed… to feed a pet, dare he say it.

Horses are one thing, they’re a companion but also a tool for a witcher, they provide utilitarian use. But a wolf pup simply following eagerly by his side?

He figures once the wolf is big and strong enough to hunt, he’ll leave off into the woods, perhaps sniffing out another pack. But stronger and bigger as the wolf grows, he doesn’t leave Vesemir.

And so the weeks pass as Vesemir travels back up through Aedirn, further away from the mountains this time, passing through the outskirts of Vengerberg as he goes. He stops into towns still, picking up the odd contract or supplies, but mostly he sticks to camping instead. The wolf may be friendly around him, but even as a pup, Vesemir is cautious to bring him around other people.

Which is how Vesemir finds himself here, camping alongside a stream deep in the thicket of some Kaedwen woods, sun already having set and the pup snoring at his side.

Vesemir quietly lays himself down onto his bedroll, careful not to disturb his companion.

It’s… inane, really, to still be traveling with the wolf. But what did he expect, that he’d just tend to the thing’s wounds then leave him?

He knows that’s what he expected of himself, but after 200 something years of life, he thought he’d known himself better than to think he’d actually follow through with that.

\--------

Vesemir isn’t surprised to see Elder Duncan waiting for him in the courtyard when he returns.

He watches the older witcher approach as a trainee comes to take Sturgeon from him, leading her over to the stables. As Duncan walks over, it’s not Vesemir he’s staring at but rather the wolf at his side.

“Vesemir,” he starts. “What is that, exactly?”

“Hunting dog.”

The elder’s wrinkled face doesn’t betray much other than his almost-constant frown, but he does slightly raise one brow. “And you brought a hunting dog up to the keep for what reason, exactly?”

“Because I have a field mouse problem in my room,” Vesemir lies easily. “And besides, he’s my claimed Surprise.”

Slowly, Duncan blinks at him, true shock coloring his expression.

“…You claimed a hunting dog. As a Surprise.”

Vesemir shrugs. “On my way through Aedirn some lord stiffed me, so he offered me the Law of Surprise as payment instead. Seconds after I claimed it, his dog began to give birth, having not known her to be pregnant at all. That which he had but did not know.”

It is, honestly, the best lie he could come up with. Why he’s lying to one of the elders of Kaer Morhen just to bring a pup who’s stuck stupidly at his side up into the keep, well. He doesn’t need to analyze that right now.

And it’s not like he cares about lying to Duncan, he thinks, as the witcher squints at him suspiciously. They’ve butted heads more times than he can count, and at first Duncan would often challenge him to a spar. But the older witcher has been stuck in his alchemy of the Trails for too many years, likely hasn’t seen a proper fight in at least fifty, and Vesemir would win easily every time. Eventually, Duncan stopped himself from challenging him.

Which he can see Duncan doing now, sneering at him while also clenching his jaw in resolve.

“Just keep the damned thing out of the towers,” he mutters before turning and stalking off.

Smiling softly to himself as the pup trots beside him, Vesemir heads towards the stables, finding Sturgeon already untacked and in the process of being brushed down. Nodding in acknowledgment to the trainees, Vesemir gathers his bags and heads inside the keep.

He’s on his way to his own quarters when he sees a familiar, small figure barreling down the corridor towards him.

“Vesemir, sir! You’re back!”

“Eskel,” Vesemir greets, but the child’s attention is already completely diverted to the pup at his feet. For a split second, Vesemir feels his heart drop out of his chest. He’d planned on waiting before allowing the wolf pup around any of the younger children, worried he might react differently to someone who doesn’t have the scent of the Trails on them--

But instead, the pup just jumps up where Eskel has bent down and laps happily at his face, Eskel giggling as the pup’s tail wags.

“…You brought a puppy back?”

Vesemir clears his throat, forcing down his sigh of relief. “He’s a hunting breed. He’s here to catch vermin.”

“You brought a puppy back! Can we play with him? Does he know how to fetch? What’s his name?”

He scoffs. “He’ll be a working dog if he wants to stay in the keep, he’s not here to play. And he doesn’t have a name.”

\--------

“Geralt, get back here!”

A few of the fledgling witchers laugh at the sight, and Vesemir glares at the lot of them. A few even manage to look sheepish.

“Geralt!” he shouts again, over to where the wolf is currently ripping apart a training dummy with his maw.

It’d just been another morning of swordstraining, months after arriving back at the keep. He’d kept a wary eye over the wolf pup, especially as he continued to rapidly grow larger. Kept his eyes, ears, and nose out for any sign of aggression from the pup, lest his temperament start to shift with age. He was, after all, still just a wolf he’d found in the wild.

But, no. The wolf mostly stayed at Vesemir’s feet, though he did do his fair share of hunting the critters that crawled in through the old walls, just as Vesemir had fibbed. But even to Duncan, it became clear that the growing pup was not actually a dog like he’d said, at least not completely. Maybe they assumed he was some wolf half-breed that a noble had somehow acquired. Either way, no one said anything to him about it--he suspected even the Elders knew not to question the Law of Surprise.

And, well. They never need to know that Geralt is just a once-injured wolf pup he happened to stumble upon.

Geralt, who’s finally looking up at him, flakes of straw dripping from his mouth before he prances over, a ripped-off dummy arm clamped in his jaw, tail wagging with obvious pride.

More laughter. Vesemir doesn’t even try to shush it. He just sighs as Geralt returns to his feet, and begins instructing the trainees on their next set. Perhaps giving them a more strenuous training set than necessary.

Once they’re completely focused on their handwork, Vesemir turns back to his wolf, who’s laying with his head rested on the straw arm, watching with seemingly rapt attention as his students strike their dummies with dull, wooden swords.

He’s noticed that, how his wolf always likes to watch while he instructs. And while this isn’t the first time he’s chewed up a dummy to bits, it was the first time he attacked a dummy in the middle of a lesson.

It was as feral as he’s ever seen his wolf, though that’s not really saying much. Vesemir keeps a closer than normal eye on him, but he’s the definition of the perfect pet through the rest of training and into the evening. He still watches closely even as the wolf is as docile as ever, practically sitting in Eskel’s lap as they all eat in the mess hall. The wolf still comes to his side when he whistles, still follows him about as he takes care of the evening chores. Still curls up with a huff on the corner of his bed, on a particular fur pelt that the wolf most certainly hasn’t claimed as his own.

It’s not as if he’s indulging Geralt. He gave him a name because just calling him “wolf” or “pup” over and over again in his head was getting rather annoying; it’s also just useful to have a name as a command.

And it wasn’t as if he was particularly fond of the pup. He was just… fond of it in the way many men are fond of helpless furry things that beg with wide eyes. The fact that those eyes shine almost amber, or that he’s constantly tailing Vesemir, looking up at him with that stupid grin… 

Well.

Snuffing out a candle with a quick flick of his hand, he settles himself into bed. As if on cue, the pup crawls up towards him, snuggling into his side.

…No. Not fond at all.

\--------

To his credit as a Witcher long-lived as he is, Vesemir does try bidding farewell to the wolf.

It doesn’t work, of course. But he does try.

He gives it weeks upon weeks, waiting until the pup is fully grown into a proper wolf, where he can take care of himself. Weeks upon weeks of Geralt trying to claw apart his fair share of training dummies, often more effectively than his own boys. Weeks of Eskel feeding him scraps and Vesemir definitely not feeding him extra scraps. Weeks until it was almost impossible to mistake Geralt for anything but what he was.

And so when he was sure Geralt was fit and strong enough, he led him outside the gates of Kaer Morhen. Setting his jaw firm, Vesemir waved a torch in front of himself to prevent the wolf from following at his feet as he retreated backwards. He threw the torch onto the ground, watching the flame dissolve into the snow, giving him time to lower back down the heavy gate.

Vesemir did not listen to the scratching of claws on metal, of whining and howling and barking as he he retreated back into the keep itself, didn’t hear the faint echoes of the howls as he walked further into its stone-laden depths, didn’t hear the desperate twang of it as it seeped through the cracks of his rattling windows. Certainly didn't have a pang clenching at his chest as he fell into a restless sleep.

When Vesemir wakes up that morning, he blinks in bleary confusion at the white wolf once again curled up beside him, as he recalls the night prior.

It’s ludacris, really. A full-grown wolf has no place by the side of a Witcher, not one up in the keep, not one out on the Path--

It’s with a grunting sigh, that Vesemir instructs a pair of trainees to go patch a hole in the outer fence, one at the base of it where some sort of inane creature must’ve dug through.

(They ask if there’s a monster that’s gotten through to dispatch of. _Not today_ , Vesemir tells them.)

Geralt sits at his feet, panting happily as his tongue hangs out dumbly. Vesemir rolls his eyes.

\--------

Fucking _foglets_.

Biting back a curse, Vesemir strikes down another one of the humanoid bastards. Even with Cat, he can only barely see the outlines in the dense fog of their own making. Thankfully their smell is also rather distinct, thick and cloying of bog water and shit, even if it’s muddled somewhat in the fog. But that, plus their shape, means he can strike near freely and without hesitation, as long as he keeps his senses up. Near freely, because… well.

A vicious snarl catches his ears, just before the whine of a foglet meeting its end. Vesemir can’t help but smirk slightly, turning with a quick parrey before stabbing his silver sword outwards, through the heart of another foglet.

It goes on like the for some time, the forest on the outskirts of the village’s farming land far more infested than the alderman let on. Unsurprising.

As the foglets are dispatched, the fog begins to dissipate until Vesemir spots the nest. Once the creatures are fully dealt with, he properly bombs the nest, keeping Geralt a safe enough distance away from the explosion.

The wolf in question is filthy as all hell, black-red blood dripping from his maw, white fur covered in brown, grody bog water.

Unperturbed, Geralt wags his tail, panting as he stares up towards him with wide eyes.

Vesemir sighs. He goes about hacking off foglet heads and tossing them into a burlap sack before hefting it onto his shoulder. Geralt by his side, they trek back towards their campsite, both a blessing and a curse that it’s a good walk away from this fucking swamp.

Later, after leaving Geralt at camp with Sturgeon, after collecting his pay upon proof from the alderman in the tiny village, does Vesemir properly return to his camp in the woods.

Hearing him approach, Geralt comes bounding towards him from the stream down by the foothill, fur wet and matted pink and brown. Shaking his head, Vesemir lights the fire pit he’d built earlier that morning with quick _igni_ before kneeling atop his bedroll, reaching for his pack.

“Come here, you stupid mutt,” he calls, Geralt already prancing over to lick at his face. Grimacing, Vesemir shoves him away with gentle force, before pulling out a rag, bar soap, and his waterskin.

Getting Geralt to sit for him, impatient as the wolf is, Vesemir quickly wets and lathers the rag, scrubbing into Geralt’s fur as best he can. He knows he won’t be able to do a perfect job, out here in the woods, but if he can at least get the foglet blood out of his fur, that’ll be good enough.

Once the red and pink is scrubbed out as well as he can manage, he lets go of the wolf with a gentle scratch behind his ear. He’s rewarded for his efforts with a spray of water as Geralt shakes out his fur before bounding back down to the stream.

Vesemir heaves what feels like the longest sigh he’s let out in a hundred years. As he turns to busy himself by digging for dried venison rations for the both of them, he hears Sturgeon knicker from behind him, as if in mocking.

He deserves it, probably.

\--------

It’s rare that Vesemir finds himself this flushed with coin.

He figures that’s a good enough excuse as any to worry away the fifth tankard of ale he’s currently throwing back.

It’d been a griffen hunt, one that’d gone unusually well and contracted by an unusually grateful village. It certainly would’ve gone worse, had Geralt not lunged at one of the damned thing’s wings before it could beat down on Vesemir while he dug his sword out from under the griffen’s claws.

He’d try to make Geralt stay at camp with Sturgeon, but it was useless arguing with his wolf when he wanted to be stubborn.

By luck upon luck, Geralt too survived the fight unscathed. A bloody mess, definitely, but Vesemir is used to cleaning blood out of his fur by now.

So now here he sits in a tavern, alone, the patrons giving him a wide berth, every so often one of them looking over towards him with wary eyes. More directed at him than his wolf, honestly. Geralt gives the image of a perfectly domestic pet, what with his makeshift collar and all. He’s still large, and likely rather unmistakable, but the townspeople are more concerned with the _actual_ monster in the room.

Still, the innkeeper doesn’t throw them out and the barmaid serves him, and he’s already tipsy on his sips of white gull he’d saved from the keep, swigging it on his walk into town. Tipsy enough not to care about the stares. It’s rare that he stays in inns or even stops at taverns, more so with Geralt now, but even with their obvious distaste the patrons leave him be, and that’s enough.

And so they keep their distance, until one doesn’t.

As the woman approaches, Vesemir can feel how the Chaos shifts around her. Despite his mild intoxication, he sets himself alert. He can’t quite place her--sorceress, perhaps druid--but she doesn’t appear hostile. She’s barely even focused on Vesemir at all, letting out a soft gasp and bending down in her skirts, offering her hand out for Geralt to sniff. His wolf’s head is already poking up from where he’s laying at Vesemir’s side, nosing towards her.

She laughs when he licks her after a moment of snuffling, and Vesemir can’t help but admire her boldness. He supposes the magic that wafts around her might have something to do with that.

“What’s his name?” she asks, settling into the bench as if Vesemir had invited her to sit. He raises a brow behind a swallow of ale, and considers.

“Geralt,” he says, past the point of pretending it isn’t true. The woman smiles at him, before moving to pet Geralt’s head as he sits up to press into her lap.

“What a lovely companion you are, Geralt,” she coos, scratching behind his right ear, just where Vesemir knows he loves. His tail wags in approval, whining as he shuffles closer. “A gentle giant, aren’t you?”

The woman hums, running delicate fingers through thick, white fur. “I’ve never seen a witcher with such an animal by his side. You two must be close.”

Vesemir mulls over her question, still a bit thrown by the encounter, and then considers the few years he’s had Geralt with him. He wants to say yes, they’re close because Geralt fights at his side if he senses Vesemir could use the help. But even just to himself, Vesemir can admit that’s not the main reason his heart warms when he brushes through Geralt's sleek coat, or when Geralt curls up against his bedroll at night, or even on his bed in Kaer Morhen.

And then he thinks of Kaer Morhen, of his trainees, his fledglings… 

“He’s… he’s a pup to me. As much as my wolves are. My witchers,” he finally manages to answer after a moment of easy patience from the woman. He normally wouldn’t be so cavalier about calling his witchers his _wolves_ but he’s still a bit tipsy, alcohol rendering his tongue almost-loose.

She smiles at his words, still petting Geralt, and Vesemir can’t help but quirk his lips in return.

“…Your wolves?” she asks with a raised brow, and Vesemir fights off an eyeroll. Instead he shrugs.

“My wolves, students, trainees. Whatever you want to call them, all of us take part in raising the younger ones and… there’s some sort of familial bond, there. And for some unknown reason, these past few years this little shit has stuck himself beside me.”

“Oh, so he found you, did he?”

Vesemir doesn’t meet her eyes, but he’s almost positive they’re smirking at him.

“More like I saved the cur from bleeding out in the middle of the forest,” Vesemir mutters. The woman laughs again, the sound as bold as the rest of her.

It’s followed by a brief silence quiet the two of them, the general noises of the tavern still drawling in the background. He pays it little mind, instead focusing on where the woman’s hands are still scratching over Geralt, in the ways Vesemir knows he likes best.

“He’s so full of love, you know. For you.”

Vesemir blinks, truly meeting her eyes for the first time that night. There’s something… striking, about her beauty, something ethereal yet severe. It could be the Chaos, he supposes, but he’s not so sure.

“And how would you know?”

She shrugs, eyes glinting. “Can you not feel it yourself?”

As if on cue, his wolf looks to him, cocking his head. Vesemir hums, and takes another sip of his ale.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

They sit there for another bout of silence, Vesemir draining his tankard, Geralt practically melting into the woman’s hands. As Vesemir clamps down his empty drink, the woman stands, moving across the tavern floor and towards the stairs. As she reaches them, she gives Vesemir a significant look, before walking up to the rooms above.

…Well then.

Dropping his coin to the barmaid, he also walks to the stairs, Geralt trotting happily at his side. The woman waits for him at the top before slipping into one of the rooms.

Vesemir follows, locking the door behind them.

\--------

Things are much different when Vesemir wakes up.

Vesemir is a Witcher. His entire world deals with the unusual and the uncanny. Mythos and monsters and beasties.

But this… 

He remembers the night before, the bold woman with magic flitting across her skin, who brought him into her bed for the night. He remembers after, falling asleep at her side, his wolf across the room already sleeping.

When he wakes up, however, the woman is gone. That’s only unusual in the sense that Vesemir is fairly certain she’d paid for the room. But the sheets opposite him are cold, and as he peers around he notices her cloak is gone, too.

It’s as he’s examining the room, that he notices the truly unusual sight--in the place where his wolf laid that night, there’s a human child curled onto his side, slumbering away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, in a 5 AM haze, googling fish native to Poland: what's an even more ridiculous fish name for a horse than Roach?
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading, comments and kudos are love. And don't worry, Jaskier will be making his debut next chapter :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who’s been waiting for this chapter, thank you so much for your patience. This was supposed to be much shorter and posted much more timely.
> 
> As a note, time in this chapter is a bit sporadic with since the narrative is comprised of a few different vignettes, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.
> 
> A huge thank you to [Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BorealLights/) for your beta help, and also to the discord for their emotional support <3
> 
> ( **Warning** for mentions of child abuse in regards to children going through the Trials, nothing graphic but it may be upsetting to read)

The child whines.

Vesemir looks down at him where he’s laying, now obviously awake. The child looks around, then down at himself, blinking, mess of brown hair falling around his eyes. Reddish-brown hair, similar in color to Vesemir’s own, but without the grey streaking the edges of his temples.

He fumbles onto all fours, looking at Vesemir with amber eyes. Even now, with the more human shape and tone they’ve taken on, Vesemir knows those eyes.

The child stares at him, and he whines. 

The boy crawls over to him unsteadily, nuzzling into Vesemir’s hands where they rest on his knees, still sitting on the edge of the bed frozen in his shock.

Mentally shaking himself, he looks down at the boy who’s staring at him with wide eyes.

“…Ves’mir?” he croaks, the sound of it gravely, choppy. Unpracticed, unused--at least not for proper speech.

…No. It’s a voice once used solely for growling, whining, and barking, one that’s trying to copy sounds he’s only heard, now that he has the means.

“Geralt…?” It’s half a question, half a statement. The reaction he gets all but confirms his suspicions; the child visibly brightens, crawling into his lap excitedly. He’s young, but not all that young, around Eskel’s age he’d wager.

“Ves’mir!” the boy repeats again, much more confident this time even if his voice is still rough around the edges. He moves to lick at Vesemir’s cheek and--yeah, no. Vesemir gently pushes him away, and thankfully Geralt gets the message.

As the weight of Geralt settles into his arms, so does the reality of the situation.

It has to have been the woman from last night. Who, or what else could it be? Even if he wanted to try and hunt her down, her scent is well and truly gone from the room. Possibly it never lingered at all, given her magic.

He regards the boy in his lap again, who’s looking around with wide, curious eyes. Human eyes.

…It has to be a curse. And if it’s a curse, he needs to get the boy to a mage, to see what can be done.

So he does just that, first wrapping the boy in a clean tunic and smallclothes, bunching the loose bits and tying them off, making sure the boy is decent. Geralt absolutely objects to the notion of being dressed, whining and nipping at him as he gets the garments onto him. He relents, eventually, but is still obviously perturbed about being forced into clothes.

When he finally manages to get Geralt to a local mage, he explains the… circumstances of the predicament, as she regards him with wary eyes. He can’t say he blames her, with what a sight he must make; a witcher walking into her shop, weaving a tale of a wolf-turned-boy.

For his part, Geralt seems oblivious to the two of them talking, simply looking around curiously. Same as he always has. After taking some time to examine the boy, the mage concludes there’s absolutely nothing abnormal about him, nothing magical. Entirely human.

“If what you’re saying is true,” she says, tone apprehensive yet not entirely disbelieving, “then it must’ve been something extremely powerful, to have turned him. It’s beyond me and my magic, there’s nothing I can detect. He seems simply a healthy boy with the mind of a normal human.”

She suggests tracking down whoever changed him, and again Vesemir considers it. He even asks around the tavern to see if anyone knows of the woman. They, too, seem wary, as much as anyone is when a witcher comes asking questions, but they also genuinely don’t seem to know of her.

He considers what the mage said, that his wolf now has the mind of a human. Vesemir cannot begin fathom why that woman even changed Geralt, but even if he did find her again… what would he do? Demand her to change him back? Would it be right to do that to someone who’s now a person, to rip their humanity from them?

…Their humanity.

It’s only as he’s back in his own inn room, gathering his belongings, that he thinks about the implications of suddenly having a child with him.

No, it wouldn’t be right to take away Geralt’s now higher-thinking. Pausing in his packing, Vesemir glances up to where Geralt is currently sitting atop the bed, watching Vesemir with his wide eyes. Same as always.

…And yet there’s something different about those eyes. He supposes it could just be that they’re resting upon a child’s face now, but he swears there’s a different look about them. A different way in which Geralt watches him… 

Gathering his swords and slinging his pack over his shoulder, Vesemir turns to Geralt who immediately perks up.

“Ves’mir… outside?”

Vesemir blinks, looking from where Geralt is glancing between him and the door. He thinks back to all the times he’s told Geralt _outside_ when leaving their room at Kaer Morhen, Geralt leaping from wherever he lay and out the door.

…It wouldn’t be right to take this from Geralt. But is it right that he’s going to have to strip Geralt of his humanity all the same?

\--------

He doesn’t think about it as he rides out of town with Geralt sat in between his legs on Sturgeon. He doesn’t think about it as he manages to trade his spare jerkin for some properly-sized children’s clothing a few villages over. He doesn’t think about it as he finds himself distinctly heading north, skirting by proper civilization as they go.

But now laying by a crackling fire, Vesemir on an old horse blanket and Geralt finally asleep in his bedroll, he can’t shove the thoughts away any longer. He knows what fate he’s bringing Geralt to; the same fate of any child who’s brought to Kaer Morhen.

He gazes over Geralt’s small form, chest rising and falling with his sleep. It seems… cruel, honestly, for this to be Geralt’s fate. Once a free and wild creature, now given the, well, _gift_ , depending how one looks at it, of human life, only for Destiny to immediately damn him to the Trials.

He knows there’s no other way, other than abandoning the boy in a village somewhere and--no, absolutely not.

…Perhaps it’s selfish of him. Would he have better luck on the Path, or scrounging for scraps on the street? At least at Kaer Morhen, he’ll have hot meals and a roof over his head.

And the very possible likelihood of dying by the mutations.

Hearing him snuffle in his sleep, Vesemir looks over as Geralt rolls onto his side, attempting to curl further into himself. As if his unconscious mind is trying to repeat old acts in a body that no longer allows for it.

Vesemir sighs. He can’t abandon Geralt. He won’t. His wolf is strong--he knows it.

He has to believe it.

\--------

Strong he may be, but the boy is an absolute brat.

Well. Not that it can be blamed, really. But it is getting rather tiring having to wrangle Geralt into his clothes each morning, somehow almost always divesting of them in his sleep.

“No clothes… don’t wanna…” he grumbles, which Vesemir pointedly ignores, just tightens the small belt around him. Geralt pouts, but allows it, and Vesemir resists rolling his eyes.

He’s good about riding on Sturgeon, at least. Even rather seems to enjoy it, with how he pets her neck as they lightly trot.

Dinner, however, has become an ordeal as Geralt constantly insists on trying to eat his meat raw. He (thankfully) has enough sense as not to go diving into the woods in this body, no longer a predator, but he does go lunging after whatever game Vesemir has skinned and gutted as soon as he brings it back for them. Normally, Vesemir would’ve handed it off to him if Geralt hadn’t hunted his own food, or at Kaer Morhen he would’ve often received a bowl of raw venison chunks for dinner. But now as a human, he has to pry Geralt’s hands away from the raw meat, watching as Geralt sulks as it spins and rotates above the fire, and sulks even more as he’s forced to eat the cooked food.

“Don’t taste good…” he’ll mutter, but he’ll still finish his helpings. Thank Melitele.

Despite his still-wolfish nature, the boy starts to act… more human, as they travel up through Temeria, passing outside Flotsam and into Kaedwen. He picks up on speaking Common surprisingly quickly--Vesemir supposes he’s been around speech all his life, just never had the means to really comprehend and apply all of it. But now that he does, he learns more and more every day.

He’s endlessly curious, Vesemir also learns. He’s really known this all along, but now Geralt has the means to properly express that curiosity. Pointing at various things, usually only asking “What’s that?” and getting Vesemir to explain various trees and herbs and flowers to him; his swords and his armor and his potions, various people they see on the road (thankfully he did manage to get Geralt to stop pointing and asking _in front of_ the people they passy by).

Things Geralt has seen time and time again in his life, but Vesemir is now able to put into words for him.

It gets easier for the both of them, he thinks, the further into Kaedwen they go, Vesemir stocking up in Ard Carraigh for the trail ahead. Buys Geralt a better pair of boots and an actual cloak; it’s barely past summer, but the deep mountains are rarely warm.

And he’s thankful he’s making this journey when he is, it’s much easier to travel with a child in tow when he’s not battling against the elements.

Weeks upon weeks after meeting that woman in that backwater village outside Piana, Vesemir finally sees the towers of the keep rise above him, stark and imposing against the backdrop of the Blue Mountains. A sight Geralt has seen many times, but he seems truly awestruck all the same. The sight of his fond expression makes Vesemir’s chest tighten painfully.

Duncan is there at the gates waiting for him because of course he is, all but sneering towards him through the portcullis as it’s raised. Vesemir passes through, walking beside Sturgeon and Geralt in her saddle. Duncan and the others were probably alerted as soon as Vesemir came into sight on the mountain trail, this time not accompanied by a wolf but by a human child.

“Vesemir,” the elder starts, eyes completely focused on Geralt. “What is that thing? It reeks of your… wolf.”

Vesemir feels his eyes narrow, but he just sighs. “He’s not a _thing_ , he’s a boy. Who was… once my wolf.”

Duncan just stares at him, as do the other elders who have gathered behind him, witchers and mages alike. “You got your wolf turned into a boy?”

“Apparently.”

Duncan looks at him expectantly, clearly wanting a further explanation. When Vesemir’s lips remain tight, the older witcher crosses his arms with a low huff.

“And so you’ve brought him here to be put through the trials, correct?”

 _What other option is there?_ Vesemir wants to say, but he doesn’t. He just nods, curt.

Geralt for his part has stayed quiet, looking almost nervously towards Duncan and the other men behind him, and then back to Vesemir. He wants to reach up and pat Geralt’s leg in comfort, but he knows he can’t, not here.

“Given that he does survive the first trials,” Duncan drawls, “the only way it’ll be worth it to us, putting a mutant through the trials, is to… see how far he can truly be pushed.”

Vesemir is torn between barking out in deranged laughter, or throttling Duncan by his neck. Instead, of course, he does neither, just tightens his grip on Sturgeon’s reigns. He hears Geralt whine, and knows the others must be able to hear it too.

“You don’t even know if he’ll survive the initial trials, and you’re already planning experiments on him?”

Duncan shrugs, unbothered. “He is just a wolf, Vesemir.”

Again Vesemir wants to laugh, at the hypocrisy and irony of it all. But he can’t, can’t draw his knife from his boot and thrust it into Duncan’s thigh, just to wipe that careless look off his wrinkled old face. Can’t even argue with Duncan, not with all the Elders here, clearly in agreement.

Geralt isn’t a wolf anymore, he does know that, of course he does. And he’s not going to be human for much longer.

And the alternative… he can’t let himself think that way. He knows by now it never helps.

“...Do as you must,” Vesemir spits out, tugging Sturgeon along towards the stables, away from the lot of them. It’s far from the first time he wishes Destiny hadn’t been so needlessly cruel.

\--------

Vesemir is thankful, at least, that Geralt had some time as a boy before he suffered through the trials. They needed to enter puberty to truly begin, so for a bit under a year, Geralt simply trained and helped maintain the keep with the other children. He ate his meals with Eskel, the other boy having no qualms about Geralt suddenly being a human now. He practiced with swords, attacking dummies like he’d watched Vesemir’s students do so many times, picking up the skill rather quickly and with obvious enjoyment. Even those quiet evenings by the fire weren’t totally gone, instead Geralt just curled up in his own chair beside Vesemir, rather than at his feet.

Geralt just enjoyed being able to _do_ things, it seemed, had found some sort of happiness of human life here in the keep, even now as a boy.

But the simple bliss of domesticity can never truly last at Kaer Morhen. Instead, Geralt goes through the trials, among a handful of like-aged boys.

Saying it’s awful would be an understatement. Of course it is, it always is, no matter the boy. Vesemir still has the memories of his own trials burned harshly into his skull, so many decades later. The vomiting, the shitting, the fire in his muscles and bones that never seemed to extinguish. It’s awful, watching so many children suffer through it, most of them not even surviving to the end.

Geralt survives. He, Eskel, and a few others are the lucky ones, and Vesemir mourns for the children who succumb to the trials, even if the sorcerers do not.

Geralt took well to the trials, and Vesemir knows it doesn't go unnoticed by the Elders. And of course, just as they’d promised years ago now, they submit him to their experiments.

Geralt’s symptoms of the first trials were comparatively mild, but this?

This is clear agony.

Vesemir doesn’t give a shit about the glares he gets when he goes to Geralt’s room, keeping a cool, fresh towel on his head rested in Vesemir’s laps as he whines and clenches and groans through the pain.

He knows that he shouldn’t be playing favorites, that all witchers in training endure great pains through the trials. But no witcher has survived these trials that Geralt has, survived through this pain as he has.

…He tells himself it’s only for this reason that he stays by Geralt’s side as the boy bites back his cries, Vesemir wiping away the silent tears from his cheeks.

\--------

When the worst of it has started to pass, Geralt comes to Vesemir one evening with a smile somehow on his face. Vesemir looks at him quizzically, and Geralt points to the crown of his head; Vesemir’s heart breaks a bit as he sees white hair growing from his roots where brown-reddish hair once had. However, Geralt’s smile doesn’t falter.

“It’s like before, remember?” he says, eyes bright. Vesemir can’t help but return a smile of his own, thinking of his wolf… 

\--------

“Have you picked a name yet for the Path, Geralt?”

The boy turns to him--though he’s not a boy anymore, is he? Time passes differently for Vesemir, sure, but it’s only now that it really hits him how much Geralt has grown in these years since coming to the keep as a boy for the first time.

He’s survived the trials, earned his medallion, been mutated to hell and back--yet here he stands, broad-shouldered and well-muscled, still with a smile upon his face. His own face doesn’t betray himself, but he aches knowing the horrors Geralt is set upon to see, now that he’ll be leaving the keep come this winter’s end.

“Yes, I have.” Geralt says, and Vesemir nods.

“Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegard!” 

Vesemir sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“…No.”

\--------

“…I did find you in Rivia, you know. Don’t think I ever told you.”

“Oh yeah?”

\--------

\--------

Jaskier is no stranger to the strange.

He’s not a complete idiot, he knows what people say about witchers, what parents of children from princesses to peasants weave into their bedtime stories, cautionary tales for unruly young ones. But, as he said, Jaskier isn’t a total idiot. He knows never to mistake rumor for fact, knows all too well the abhorrence that can arise from doing so.

Not that his childhood was… well, it could’ve been much worse, absolutely. He knows now what privilege he had simply by sleeping with a full stomach each night. As a child, he never knew suffering in such a way.

His childhood would have been even more privileged if he hadn’t been forced to hide his nature.

Jaskier knows all nobles have their secrets, as excessive wealth isn’t typically both accumulated and maintained through an honest life, but he liked to think that his family’s secret was bigger than most. At least, that’s what it always felt like, what with how furious Mother got in her insistence that he keep it just that--a secret.

His mother knows of it, of course, even though it skipped her. She says Father is never allowed to know of it, but it’s obvious he does, and Mother is in denial. Jaskier can see it in the look in his eyes, a hardness that just isn’t there when he looks upon Jaskier’s sisters. 

(Mother says it’s because Father expects more of him. Jaskier knows that’s bollocks--he may be his father’s only son, but he’s still the last born of five.)

He was allowed to go to Oxenfurt, likely his mother thinking he couldn’t fuck things up in Lettenhove if he wasn’t physically there. Which worked out fine for him, especially considering it gave him the excuse to shove off and not return home after he earned his degree. And while the life of a traveling bard wasn’t as glamorous as he’d initially hoped, it did give him ample freedom for his second-greatest passion in life: flying.

At home, he was never allowed to shift. Which to him, actually just meant he was never allowed for anyone to see him shift. He usually only did so at night when he was supposed to be sleeping. He risked flying a few times, pent up and eager to stretch his wings, but after a near disastrous run-in with a guardsman and a crossbow, he decided not to risk it. Just shifting helped ease the itch, but it was never enough to truly sate him.

At Oxenfurt, he risked it a few times during his latter years, granted single room accommodations with a window he was able to sneak out of; and yet… something about being so close to civilization, something about his mother’s voice still chiding in his head… It felt too risky still, and thus he often didn’t.

But traveling on the open road, camping under the stars alone with just his lute and his meager possessions… 

It’s not as if Jaskier was averse to risk or adventure or any of the like, absolutely not. Life would be too dull and boring without such things. But aside from the fear instilled by his mother of what would happen to him should anyone know… it went beyond that. His nature was his alone to disclose, and he didn’t want anyone taking that from him.

And thus, though it came with its many, many drawbacks when compared to the comfort of his room in Oxenfurt and the stability of a propositioned teaching position, he still much preferred living as a traveler, a wanderer.

Adventure, inspiration, shifting, flying… 

And then, 

Geralt.

\--------

All that being said… 

Jaskier can’t deny that Geralt is… strange.

But the thing about Geralt is, Jaskier cannot discern which parts are because of his witchery-ness, and which parts are purely his own lovely, strange self.

Not that it matters to him. Not that it’d change the way he feels towards his dear friend--any of the ways he feels towards him. He’s just curious, is all. Curious by his own nature, curious to learn more about witchers, and about Geralt himself.

He’s not sure if it was luck or Destiny that put Geralt in the same tavern that one afternoon in Posada, but he’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It’s only shortly after meeting that Jaskier begins to pick up on how odd Geralt is. The man, big and brooding as he is, seemed devoid of all humor and happiness, at least if his gruff exterior is to be believed. Whether a complete front or not, Jaskier hadn’t been able to determine, but he did quickly pick up that the witcher might not be all that he seems.

“The great White Wolf of Rivia, they should call you, what with your…” Jaskier gestured to Geralt’s well, everything as he pratters on, but he mostly referred to his hair. Full and thick and absolutely beautifully white. All of Jaskier’s previous chatter seemed to have bounced completely off the man, but it’s this which stops the witcher in his tracks where he’d been walking alongside his horse _(who names their horse after a fish?)_ and stared Jaskier down. Even in that moment he didn’t fear the witcher, but with Geralt’s inhuman eyes leering over him, he couldn’t help but be a bit nervous.

He’d been preparing for… well, he didn’t know what he'd been preparing for exactly, Jaskier did just meet him, but he’s definitely not expecting the rather barking laugh that’s pulled from the witcher, as if against his own will.

He offered the tiniest of smirks to Jaskier, as Jaskier had blinked towards Geralt in shock, before turning back and tugging Roach along. Jaskier stood there for a moment, still in his shock, before scampering after the witcher.

“White Wolf, huh?” Geralt said, amusement flickering in his voice. “Don’t know if that one will stick, bard.”

“Oh, once I’m singing your praises far and wide across the Continent, it sure will!”

\--------

So. One seemingly out of character interaction doesn’t qualify a man as strange, but combined with everything else he’s come to know about Geralt over these months turning years?

Jaskier can’t deny there’s something else there. And he’s not entirely sure it has to do with him being a witcher, either.

The raw food thing… it makes sense, he supposes, that it _would_ be a witcher thing, though he hasn’t exactly met any other witchers for comparison. But Geralt can’t contract disease like normal men, so he wouldn’t have any fears about eating meat raw.

It’d taken Geralt a little bit, Jaskier could tell, to be comfortable eating completely raw meat in front of him, but months on the road with a companion often leads to a variety of barriers and social qualms being broken down. Of course, it’s not as if Jaskier would complain how Geralt eats his game--he prefers his own meat very rare, especially when he’s in touch with his more, er. Predatory side.

Not that Geralt knows this, but the principle of it remains.

It’s months into their time spent as travel companions, having parted for the previous winter and found each other again on the cusp of spring turning to summer, when Jaskier decides to make mention of Geralt’s eating habits. Their time spent apart has certainly made his own heart grow fonder, though he’s not sure if the same can be said for Geralt. But they’ve been together for weeks again now, and he realizes he wants to make sure Geralt is… comfortable, around him. He always seems so tense, only truly loosening up once they’ve been on the road for days on end without a village in sight.

He wants Geralt to have more of that, if he can.

“You can just go ahead and eat it like that, you know,” he finally says to Geralt one evening around the fire, the witcher skinning a couple rabbits for the both of them and prepping them for cooking. He’s seen the way Geralt stares at meat before it’s barely been licked by flames, dripping blood as Geralt’s mouth practically waters. And who is Jaskier to deny his witcher such simple pleasure?

Geralt stares at him for a long moment, staring towards Jaskier but not quite meeting his eyes. Jaskier tries not to squirm under that reticent gaze. Eventually, however, Geralt removes the skewer from his own rabbit, not having put it over the fire yet, and bites into it. Bloodened juice trickles down his chin as he chews, and now, he does meet Jaskier’s eyes. Jaskier sees the challenge in it, but of course Jaskier does not run for the hills at what Geralt is likely convinced is a monstrous, unseemly sight. Instead Jaskier just pulls his own rabbit from the fire, still rare, and starts eating as an excuse to hide his own grin.

It’s not just the food that Jaskier notices. Because, well, there are lots of things that Jaskier notices about Geralt; he could wax poetic for days simply about the shape of his jawline or the curve of his thick, thick thighs… of course he could, anyone with eyes could, should they get over their considered ‘tragedy’ of him being a witcher… but putting all that personal right-hand fodder for Jaskier’s lonely nights aside, Jaskier would like to think there’s much more he notices about his dear witcher, things where he’s likely one of the few people granted the privilege of being able to notice, simply due to the privilege of being able to _know_ Geralt as one is able to after so much time spent traveling together.

Like how Geralt rinses from his baths in rivers and streams and lakes, when he thinks doesn’t think anyone (i.e. Jaskier) is looking; how he not only shakes his hair but individually shakes all of his limbs, drying himself off in a surprisingly efficient manner that Jaskier can’t help but find stupidly endearing.

And then there are the smaller things Geralt does, the little things Jaskier thinks Geralt doesn’t even realize he does.

For one there’s the sniffing. So, so much sniffing.

Due to Jaskier’s own nature, he completely understands having a stronger-than-average nose, and relying on that more than perhaps others might. But Geralt seems to just always be scenting the air, not just during hunts or when traveling on the roads but whenever they enter a tavern or inn, or even just a new town. At first he thought it might be the strong smells that come with civilization compared to the more mild nature of wilderness, but Jaskier has come to realize it’s more than that; Geralt seems to be sniffing the people.

(And when it’s just Jaskier around, and Geralt is still constantly scenting, well… Jaskier tries not to let himself think about that too much, lest his imagination run rampant.)

What Jaskier perhaps finds most endearing of all of Geralt’s endearing quirks, however, are his little head tilts. At first during their travels, Jaskier thought the witcher was simply tuning him out the majority of the time while Jaskier prattled on about anything and everything, or was composing aloud or simply singing to practice his upcoming sets. He offered no verbal indication he was listening aside from the occasional hum or grunt, and even that wasn’t often.

But then, Jaskier actually started looking at Geralt. And Jaskier started noticing that when he’d make a particular snide comment about whatever recent distasteful villagers they’d had the displeasure of meeting, or a specific lyric with a key point from Geralt’s most recent hunt, Geralt would tilt his head towards him from where he was either standing beside him or astride Roach, even if he won’t full turn to look at him. It’s a small, barely there thing, so much so Jaskier truly doesn’t think Geralt knows he does it, but Jaskier absolutely notices, and knows it can only mean Geralt _is_ listening to him, seemingly leaning in when something catches his attention. He supposes he can’t truly know for sure but he’d bet more than a few coins on it, considering it only happens on key words Geralt absolutely would latch on to. 

And oh, to realize such a thing after believing Geralt might not truly care… what a thing that is to feel.

And still, like his washing (er, drying) habits, there are other things Jaskier notices about Geralt and feels a bit guilty doing so, other things that Geralt seems to try and hide. Namely, how he gets himself comfortable during his more restless nights.

Jaskier is usually only barely awake for it, gently risen from his sleep by the muffled shuffling, but is still treated to the sight of Geralt pacing around his bedroll, settling, before shaking his head, pacing again, and settling. He usually repeats it a few times before finally curling into himself with a huff, drifting back into a fitful sleep.

His heart aches for Geralt with how often it seems to happen, and then again when he finally realizes during the times where they have to share a bed at crowded inns (a double-edged blade if Jaskier has ever felt one) Geralt purposely avoids his, well, rituals--for lack of better term--as to avoid jostling the bed and waking Jaskier.

Well, both fortunately and unfortunately for the two of them, Jaskier is a notoriously light sleeper and Geralt just laying next to him, stiff as a board and bleeding tension, is enough to knaw at Jaskier's instincts and rouse him.

“Geralt.”

“Hrm.”

Jaskier bites back a stupid little grin, and sighs. “I don’t mind if you need to get up.”

Silence, as Jaskier was expecting. He waits patiently, kind of not expecting any sort of verbal response, kind of expecting Geralt to tell him to fuck off.

Instead, he says, “Why would I need to get up?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. Are they really going to play this game? “I’m not stupid, Geralt, and I’m also a pretty light sleeper. I know that little dance you do when you can’t get comfortable, and you’re obviously not comfortable now. So just do whatever you need to do so we can both get some rest.”

More silence. And then,

“…My little dance?”

Gods help him, how could he have fallen for such a dense, dense man? 

But there’s more to it than that. It’s only because Jaskier knows Geralt, that he notices that shift in tone. Jaskier feels a pinch of guilt at that--he should’ve known this might be more of a, er. Personal matter, compared to his eating habits. He tries to adjust his tone and words accordingly.

“Yes, my dear, your little dance. We all have our ticks, it’s nothing to be ashamed about. I just want you to be comfortable and able to get some proper sleep.”

At that, he expects Geralt to feed him some bullshit about witchers not needing sleep--and even if he might be technically correct in not _”needing”_ it, Jaskier has also noticed he’s always in much better spirits when he’s actually properly rested.

It’s a long, long moment, and even then Geralt doesn’t verbally respond. Instead he just rises onto his knees atop the mattress, rustles and turns and flits around a bit, settles, before doing it again and again. Not minutes later, he seems truly settled and truly comfortable, his breath evening and deep.

This time, Jaskier is thankful the darkness of the room is there to hide his grin.

\--------

_“…With pride now face my faith,  
King and Queen now lie in state,_

_Fear for life I wear as a ring,  
I bask in your favor, I have killed the king… ”_

Vesemir pays little attention to the bard playing in the corner of the tavern as he sits down with his meal, stew smelling fresh and bowl warm under his hands. The barmaid even handed him the meal with something akin to a smile, rather than the usual looks of contempt or fear. He barely leaves the keep anymore, maybe about one season a year, but here at the edge of Mahakam, he’s certainly noticed an uptick in goodwill amongst their people.

Vesemir sits down and spoons some of his stew. It’s decent--certainly better than he was expecting.

As much as he’d prefer to just focus on his meal, he can’t help but listen as the bard sings, frollocking himself around the smal,l makeshift stage area he’s made for himself.

It’s not as if the bard’s performance is bad, far from it. He can carry a tune well, and his playing seems just as refined. But the lyrics of the song he’s belting out are certainly… 

_“…I had a nightmare  
The Wolf eating The Raven,_

_Entrails of life on my plate and I ate 'em…_

_Interested in what I see,_  
Have you seen the beauty of the  
Enticing beast?” 

…interesting.

Vesemir makes the mistake of glancing up towards the bard, who just so happens to catch his eye. He raises a brow in confusion as the bard looks genuinely shocked, blinking at him owlishly--then suddenly stopping as if remembering himself, turning back towards the rest of the crowd with a last, lingering glance towards him.

Huh.

Vesemir finishes his meal as the bard finishes his songs. To his continued surprise, the bard heads straight towards Vesemir and takes the seat across from him in the tavern’s back corner, an eager smile strewn across the bard’s near-ruddy cheeks.

“My apologies for the glare earlier,” he starts without preamble, and Vesemir just blinks. “It was nothing to do with you, of course, I’d just mistaken you for someone else.”

Well isn’t that curious. Even with his overall cloak concealing most of his form, Vesemir knows he isn’t someone to be mistaken for others. No, not with this man gazing into Vesemir’s own inhuman eyes with ease rather than fear, with Vesemir’s own, white hair spilling out from under his hood.

His, however, is aged from time, unlike… 

\--it’s when Vesemir inhales to speak that he truly catches the young man’s scent.

He’s only caught the scent once… an old friend he hasn’t seen in years. Hers was always primarily otter, with hints of horse and hare.

This shifter in front of him though, he stinks mostly of raven, which is genuinely surprising, it’s not a form Vesemir would’ve pegged on him. His lyrics now, however… 

But layered beneath the raven, however, Vesemir also catches the barely-there notes of fox, and some sort of dog.

To someone even with a nose like Vesemir’s, it’d be hard to tell a shifter apart by smell alone unless one knew what they were looking for by having smelled that layering of animals before, telling of their most recent and primary forms.

And this shifter… this bard… 

Refocusing on his original thought, he knows the bard must be referring to his own wolf. Hr’d heard snippets of that coin song throughout the last few villages on the path, but beyond that, Geralt wasn’t exactly subtle.

Vesemir didn’t press, but all winter Geralt had been exceptionally moody, even more so than Lambert. And considering it was that same coin song Lambert kept tormenting Geralt with throughout the season, Vesemir can only conclude that his wolf has… some sort of entanglement with this human bard.

But no, not human bard; shifter bard. And the source of his wolf’s temper tantrum.

“You must be the bard Jaskier,” Vesemir states, and this time it’s the bard who blinks at him. “You travel with the White Wolf, do you not?”

(A new moniker, likely also thanks to the bard, one Vesemir couldn’t help but laugh about the first time he’d heard it… and one that makes his heart clench just slightly every time he repeats it.)

Jaskier’s face lingers for a moment before breaking into a wide grin, hands slapping onto the table. “Yes! I am! The honorable and noble Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, my lovely muse. Forgive me, it’s not as if I think all witchers know each other, but do you… know him?”

He wonders how much Geralt has kept from his bard, until Vesemir remembers his cloak concealing his own medallion. He withholds his smirk.

“Our Paths have crossed,” Vesemir says, and offers nothing more when Jaskier obviously waits for an elaboration. He doesn’t seem all that dismayed when he doesn’t get one, just taking the answer in stride.

“We’re to meet again soon, in Vengerberg. Well, we’d actually planned to meet in Lyria, but I’ve been following very credible rumors about a zeugl problem and a white-haired witcher who’s been contracted for it, and I know that’ll take him at least a few days so I’m hoping to catch up to him before he leaves town. And thus, I thought I’d gotten lucky and met him early--though not that I’m in any way shape or form unlucky having met you, dear witcher. You know of me, but I don’t believe I actually caught your name… ?”

Vesemir pauses, rubs his chin. He knows if he tells the bard his name, he’ll surely run his lips to his wolf. And he knows he shouldn’t try and purposely ruffle Geralt’s fur, but… 

“It’s Vesemir,” he decides, and keeps his laughter to himself.

The bard’s smile only widens, though it falls slightly when Vesemir stands.

“Surely I can’t bribe you to stay a bit longer with another round?”

Vesemir feels his lips twitch. “I’m afraid not, I only had enough time for the meal. But it was very nice to meet you, Jaskier. I suspect it’s you I have to thank for the warmer than usual reception I received here.”

Jaskier blinks, before clasping his hands together, nodding eagerly. “Oh yes, of course! My new ballad about Geralt’s recent victory over a wyvern seems to have gone over rather well! It’s lovely to hear, then, that it’s done it’s job and made these people properly thankful for your work.”

“I didn’t have a contract here, I’m just passing through.”

Jaskier shrugs, smiles. “Work, generally. Witchers, then.”

Vesemir lets out an involuntary snort. He doesn’t think people will ever truly be thankful for witchers, not anymore… but this bard, at least, does seem thankful. Vesemir might even be suspicious with how fondly he talks about witchers, if it weren’t for those real and true emotions practically seeping off his scent.

And that scent… 

“Your last song…” Vesemir starts, Jaskier tilting his head. “I assume that one wasn’t about the wyvern?”

The bard laughs, shakes his head. “Oh, no, definitely not. I only sang that one since the crowd was starting to thin out. It’s, uh, a bit unconventional, really… “

Sheepish doesn’t look natural on the bard, not at all. Vesemir grunts, swinging his pack over his shoulder. “It’s curious, isn’t it, that you sang about a raven… you’d know something about that, wouldn’t you, Jaskier?”

Vesemir just can’t help but wink at the end of his words. He also can’t help but savor the incredulous look that falls over the bard’s face, just before Vesemir turns and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I agonized over this chapter for way longer than I should have and I’m still not totally satisfied, but at some point you just gotta apply the ‘fuck it’ principle.
> 
> (Also, the lyrics Jaskier uses in the last scene are taken from [Wolf and Raven](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5yszaOJHPjA) by Sonata Arctica. I know they're a bit odd but I've personally attributed meaning to them in relation to Jaskier singing them in this fic... but I won't get into it lmao)
> 
> I hope to get the next chapter (or possibly two) out in a more timely manner, but I unfortunately can’t make any promises. Thank you for sticking with me and for reading, comments and kudos are love <3 I hope you're all staying safe and happy and well!

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](https://meebles.tumblr.com/)


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